


Nothing Left to Give

by checkthemargins



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Jossed, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 14:40:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/checkthemargins/pseuds/checkthemargins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Directly post Season 2, Derek finds himself drowning under the pressure of a broken pack, the grief he hasn't dealt with yet, and a whole slew of Alphas marching onto his territory. Not to mention his ex-kanima new recruit who remains both a pain in Derek's ass and an electric buzz under his skin. There's a war coming, and for the first time in a long time Derek's scared, because nothing terrifies him more than having something to lose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Left to Give

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya! This is my second Teen Wolf fic. This was written eons before season three and has now been thoroughly, thoroughly jossed. This is part one of what I think will be four. I hope you enjoy! Concrit/feedback loved and cherished.

**Nothing Left to Give**

**i.**

The basement was the easiest part of the house to repair, and considering that upon their pack's death Derek and his sister inherited more money than they could ever spend in several lifetimes and neither could bear to leave their home, it was an easy decision to make to have it renovated. For the last several years it's been a roomy underground apartment, four bedrooms and two bathrooms and decorated mostly to Laura's tastes. They thought, for a long time, of attempting to rebuild the rest of the house, but Laura had said that she wanted it the way it was. She wanted to remember. She wanted the sanctimonious hunters to see what they'd done to a _family_ , to _children_. She wanted them to see the home that they destroyed.

Derek hasn't had much time to reconsider since she died. The scorched wood smells like blood, now. Like Kate's and Peter's and Derek's and Scott's, even. It's more debris than house, but he thinks he might agree with his sister. It should stay as it is, to remind him of what he did, of who he trusted and why and how he never will again.

Besides, it's one hell of a decoy.

The basement apartment has four bedrooms. Laura had the master, which Derek has since taken over. Isaac is the only one of his pack who no longer lives with his parents, so he's taken one of the spares. Peter's taken another. The third was set aside. Peter briefly entertained the idea of turning it into a sort of library or office. Now there's a brand new bedroom suite and a sleeping boy inside.

Derek's leaning in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. He's exhausted in ways he's never been before, even right after the fire, and he should by all rights be asleep at this time of night. Instead he's brooding intensely enough that his eyebrows are starting to hurt, glaring balefully at his newest problem.

Jackson's been unconscious for three days. 

Within seconds of his timely transition from kanima to wolf, he looked at Derek over Lydia's shoulder, breathed the word "Alpha", and then dropped like a rock, eyes rolling into the back of his head and flesh hitting the stone floor with a gross smack.

It took almost an hour and all four of Chris Argent, Allison, Scott and Stiles to coax Lydia away from him, to explain that Jackson is legally dead to the rest of the world and that taking him home, especially when they're not entirely sure if he's still dangerous or not, wasn't an option. Peter being around might've helped a little in her being willing to finally leave. She hasn't been back, and Jackson hasn't woken since.

Derek takes a slow, deep breath, and leans his temple against the doorjamb. Jackson's very still, save for the steady rise and fall of his chest, but he's moved around since yesterday, flipped from his back onto his side and tugged the blankets up further up over himself, so it's probably more sleep than unconsciousness now. Derek, who's mostly been hoping that he'd just never wake up, isn't exactly heartened.

He's been there for maybe half an hour when Peter, humming, steps up behind him. Derek narrows his eyes at him, but his uncle simple smiles wryly and leans casually against the opposite side of the doorway, pushing his hands into his pockets.

"You know what that boy is, don't you?" he drawls, eyes on Jackson.

Derek bristles, fighting the urge to step between Peter and the bed, to block his line of sight. Unnecessary, irrational. If Peter wanted Jackson dead he would have done it by now. He offers only a tight nod, mouth pulling into a firm line. "Yes."

"Did you always?" Peter asks.

"No. Only when he…" he can't quite find the right words.

"Transformed?"

Derek makes a face, but nods again. He glances at his uncle suspiciously. "Did you?"

Peter meets his eyes, which is something. "Your father told me, seventeen years ago in June."

Derek's chest tightens, the ache at the mention of his father unfamiliar, only because Laura never spoke of their family as a coping mechanism. Suddenly, Derek misses him so much that it's difficult to breathe. He's not entirely surprised by Peter's admission, though: Derek's father was Alpha, and Peter his second-in-command; he'd know everything. Derek's father was a surgeon at the hospital in town, was likely there the day that Jackson's parents were in the car wreck that killed them.

"The day he was born?"

Peter taps his nose, mouth pulling up at the corners again. It's not as eerie as it would've been months ago. More obnoxious than anything. "Got it in one."

Derek rubs his eyes tiredly. He doesn't have time for this. Jackson's been a pain in his ass from the moment Derek became aware of his existence. He's angry and calculating and smart enough to cause trouble, completely lacking in common sense, has apparently no conscience, and is above all things a coward. He's competitive and arrogant and so thoroughly buried in defense mechanisms that he's _anything_ but mentally stable, and Derek's already got one psychopath and a completely infuriating Alpha-in-training on his hands, not to mention the Alpha pack that's sure to come out of the woodwork soon enough, the pack and Erica and Boyd have likely left him for. He doesn't have the time or energy to spare with this mess of a kid. 

But.

"He called me Alpha."

Peter smirks. "Always seeking a master. You think he was swallowed by the kanima by chance? No. It's always been there inside him. He's always needed to belong to someone. And now he belongs to you."

"Lucky me."

Peter snorts. "You _are_ the one that bit him."

"I didn't know what he was."

"Would it have changed your mind?"

Derek can't really answer that.

Peter yawns hugely and pushes off the wall. "You should sleep, Derek. Take what time you have to rest. God only knows what's coming next."

Derek doesn't answer, but he doesn't pull away when his uncle squeezes his shoulder, either. He's never been very good at turning away comfort. Peter leaves, disappears into his chosen bedroom, and Derek sighs quietly and straightens.

On the bed, Jackson shifts suddenly, rolls from one side to the other so he's facing the door, facing Derek. He scrubs his cheek against his pillow and exhales deeply, settles again. The light splashing over him from the hallway makes him look pale, makes the freckles on his face stand out, his eyelashes look black and smudgy on his cheeks. Derek flicks the switch on the wall to turn it off and walks away. Peter's right.

God only knows what's coming.

 

 

"This doesn't have anything to do with me," says Scott, and Derek fights the desperate urge to _strangle him to death._

They're outside Derek's house, Derek and Peter and Scott and Stiles and Isaac. It's late afternoon, right after school's let out, and Derek's forgone his usual jacket because it's _hot_ out, early May sunshine beating down through the trees. Derek's taken cover under the shade of the porch, but Scott and Stiles are sitting on the hood of Stiles's jeep, basking in the warmth like cats. Isaac is sitting on the front steps, mostly asleep, and Peter is leaning over the railing, his hands folded.

"It has a lot to do with you," Derek tells Scott irritably. "Don't you get it? You might be refusing to be a part of my pack but you're still one of us, and the Alpha pack has been here long enough to know exactly who you are. Who your friends are, and who your family is."

"How?" Scott asks angrily. "Why would they care? I don't even want to _be_ this."

"They came here because of me, and ever since you had me _arrested for murder_ I can't seem to escape you. If they've been watching me, they've been watching you."

Scott frowns darkly—as darkly as Scott can, anyway, considering he like a big precious puppy—but Stiles jabs a finger in Derek's direction curiously. "I have two questions."

" _What?_ " Derek snarls.

"One. _Why is he still here?!_ " He sort of yells it, gesturing wildly at Peter, who blinks, and then grins. Stiles turns back to Derek, big-eyed. "Do you not remember the part where he killed your sister? Or tried to turn Scott's mom? Or, hey, I don't know, almost killed the woman I love?"

Derek sighs, loudly, and looks at Scott, who just shrugs. "It's a good question."

"He's not crazy anymore," Derek answers.

"Bullshit!" Stiles cries. "That's just you making shit up."

"You don't understand."

"No, no, _you_ don't understand," Stiles argues. He's still talking with his hands. He's about to elbow Scott off the Jeep. "He _almost killed Lydia_ , Derek. And he kidnapped me. And he almost killed _you_. Does he have you hypnotized? Can werewolves do that? I've seen the eyes, there's definitely something hypnotic about them, until you get distracted by like, the claws and the wicked sideburns and the fangs—"

"Shut _up_ ," Derek growls. Stiles snaps his mouth closed and shifts a little closer to Scott, but he still looks mutinous. Derek's not sure which facet of Stiles is more dangerous, his blind curiosity or his abject mistrust. He's too smart for his own good. He'd probably be worth recruiting, assuming he'd agree to his mouth being taped shut most of the time. Derek takes a slow breath and clears his throat pointedly. "The damage from the fire drove him insane. He's not anymore."

"How do you know?" Stiles presses.

"I can smell it," Derek answers curtly.

Stiles makes a face, and looks like he's going to argue, but Scott taps him on the shoulder with two fingers and Stiles relents. Scott looks at Peter. "He's right. He smells different. Really different. Better. Sane."

"Death is very relaxing," Peter offers helpfully. "A bit like a spa vacation. Or therapy. Cathartic."

"You still killed all those people," Stiles says, "and you don't regret it."

"I regret one. I murdered my niece and the alpha of my pack, and I'll have to live with that forever." Derek doesn't look at him, but he can sense the truth in it. He'll never forgive his uncle, but he only has so many allies, and Peter is powerful and sharp. Peter goes on, "But the monsters who massacred my entire family can rot in Hell."

Stiles doesn't say anything, no one does, and after a while Scott coughs awkwardly and nudges Stiles. "What was your second question."

"Oh, right. Two, what does this Alpha pack like, want, exactly?"

That is a very good question. He glares at Stiles for asking it, but it's Peter that speaks.

"It could be a recruiting mission."

"Like to recruit Derek?"

"Yes. Strictly speaking, werewolf numbers are dwindling, what with hunter tactics now involving automatic weapons and too much technology, and Omega wolves don't ever survive. Alphas become Alphas through blood, either genetics or the death. When Derek's father died, his eldest child became Alpha. When I killed Laura, spilling her blood passed it on to me. If I'd been from another pack, if my blood hadn't been shared with a member of this family, it would have been nothing but murder. Like it or not, Scott, you _are_ Derek's beta."

"What's that have to do wi—"

"I'm getting there. Jesus," Peter raises an eyebrow at Derek. "Impatient little brats, aren't they?"

"You have no idea," Derek gripes darkly. Stiles sticks his tongue out at him. Derek rolls his eyes.

"Alpha packs are the result of the end of blood lines, basically. The Alphas in these packs, however they took the mantle, have no pack of their own. Rather than go insane like an Omega, they found each other. They have no leader, very little structure, and as a result have a reputation of being rather…barbaric."

"But why?" Scott asks. "Why barbaric, I mean? Can't they just remain loyal to each other?"

"Because they're ignoring pack dynamic, they're fighting instinct and their own biology. We thrive in hierarchy, and Alphas themselves are incredibly possessive on their own. There's never more than one in a pack. The competition on a very base level is dangerous, whether for power or basic needs or mates."

" _Mates_?" Stiles interjects, gaping. "Wait, wait, wait. You mean that the whole like, mate for life thing is real?"

"Don't look so shocked," Peter says, amused. "It's really quite romantic. Bonds form, there's a certain amount of empathy, the depth of feeling…" He sighs. "Scott knows."

Scott swallows hard. "Allison."

"I mean, not necessarily, but if you both choose it. It's a deeper bond than you could ever understand. My mate was killed in the fire. It's one of the reasons I went a bit—"

"Fucking psycho?" Stiles says.

Peter only shrugs. "Anyway. Alpha packs. They like to move in numbers. They'll collect wayward betas from time to time, but they do not turn their own. That, at least, is a pact that they keep between them. I assume that they got wind of both Laura and myself dying and Derek being the last official Hale. Derek's quick attempt to build up a pack of his own was to deter them in the hopes that they would move on."

"And they decided not to."

"They decided not to."

Scott looks at Derek, who stares right back at him. At least Peter enjoys talking, so Derek doesn't have to explain all these basic things to the new recruits. Isaac is listening interestedly as well. Derek holds Scott's gaze until Scott finally opens his damn mouth. "Why?"

Peter shakes his head. "That can't be explained by science, kids. They are all individuals. Whatever dastardly plot they're entertaining, we won't know until they let us."

"Erica and Boyd have joined them," Derek says. "Been taken on as beta _pets_ by them, of their own volition. It's safe to assume that the Alpha pack knows everything about all of us."

"Shit," Stiles offers, succinct and fitting. Scott is quiet a very long time, eyes distant. Derek wants to roll his eyes, but it's not exactly the usual teenage angst that Scott's dealing with, so he gives him the time to run through it.

"So what you're suggesting is—"

"What I'm _suggesting_ is that you get over yourself," Derek says.

"I don't like the decisions you make," Scott argues bluntly. "I don't like that you're okay with using death as a means to an end. I don't like that you withhold information. I don't like that you went and preyed on teenagers with low self-esteem to build a pack. I'm not going to follow someone I don't trust. You're not exactly like, a bacon of sanity yourself."

It's silent for a long time, and then Stiles looks at Scott, eyebrows drawn together. "Bacon? You mean beacon?"

"Whatever!" Scott shouts, flushing. Peter laughs. "We live in a town called Beacon Hills." Derek feels his lips tug up at the corners a bit, and Stiles is obviously trying to be a good friend but it's taking him great effort not to laugh. Scott glares huffily. "You know what I mean!"

Derek swallows back a lot of anger and worry and stress. He and Scott need each other. Scott comes with own version of a pack, but Derek's blood is Alpha. He'll adopt the lot of them if it'll get them through this next crisis alive.

"It's the only way to keep everyone safe, Scott," Isaac says suddenly. Scott's attention turns to him, and he shifts around on the steps, spreading his knees a little and wining an arm around them lazily. "Make it like a temporary thing. Until the Alpha pack is gone, you're with us. One of Derek's. Let him train you. You'll have a pack to help you keep the people you love safe. You won't be alone."

Scott's shakes his head, scrubbing a hand over his face tiredly. "I'll think about it."

"Scott—"

"I said I'll think about," Scott cuts Derek off. "It's the best I can do for now."

Derek chews on his tongue, furious, but eventually nods. "Fine."

Stiles looks between them, and then smiles, all dimples, and claps his hands together. "Okay then! Pizza? 'Cause I could really go for some pizza. I…."

Derek's chest lurches suddenly, and he can hear movement from the apartment below. His connection to Jackson is more tenuous than the one he has between his other betas, but it's more intense, too. Stiles is still rambling, but Derek's mostly aware of the rushing throb of Jackson's heartbeat and his own irritation.

"Derek?" He looks down at Isaac, who's watching him, brow furrowed. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Jackson just woke up. I'll be back."

Isaac frowns, brow furrowed. "Sure."

Derek tugs the door open and disappears inside, vaguely aware of Stiles shouting "Where's he going?" He unlocks the door to the basement and pulls it shut behind him and takes the stairs down two at a time, rushes through the living room and down the hallway. By the time he makes it to the extra bedroom, Jackson's on his feet.

Barely.

Derek catches him before he hits the floor. Jackson's scared, his heart racing, his breathing quick and shallow. He smells good, clean and like the soap they scrubbed him with before they got him into bed the night he collapsed. As the kanima, his scent was acrid, broken and _wrong_.

"What the fuck is going on?!" Jackson demands. He'd probably like to pull away, but he's still too weak to do much. Derek lowers them both to the floor and lets him go. Jackson squirms back, leaning heavily against a big oak dresser. His blue eyes are wide and bloodshot, his mouth trembling. "What am I doing here?!"

"Your safe," Derek tells him. "You're in my home."

"That's not exactly reassuring!" Jackson shouts. He's not very loud, his voice hoarse from disuse, but Scott, Peter and Isaac can probably hear him. "And this isn't your house!"

Derek watches him carefully, tilting his head. Jackson's moving easier. He was hurt, near the end as the kanima, still half-human. His arms were broken and he was very, very ill from the venom. He seems okay now, though, certainly capable of pointing accusingly and while he's warm Derek doesn't think he's running a fever. He seems healthy.

"It is my house. We're in the basement. You didn't think I actually lived upstairs, did you?"

"I didn't _care_! What's going on? Why can't I fuckin'—"

"Would you _calm down_?" Derek growls, an order, and Jackson immediately goes quiet and still, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. He still looks angry, but he's settling. Christ. Looking for a master indeed. Derek has no idea how he's going to handle this. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Jackson shakes his head, bewildered. "I-I was. I was at Lydia's birthday party. I….No." He looks up at Derek, wide-eyed. "I was in some kind of warehouse. I'd…Oh my _God_."

He doesn't panic, which Derek expects, considering he's pretty sure this kid has spent his whole life terrified of _something_. Instead, as what Derek assumes are memories of the past four months run their way through his head, he slips past denial and lands firmly on anger.

Derek doesn't have much of a warning before a clawed hand is slamming into his chest. He's knocked back a couple of feet, and Jackson is full on wolf, fangs and all, standing now in a pair of low-slung pajama pants and nothing else. Derek gets to his feet, and when Jackson screams furiously and slams into him, he's ready for it.

It's a short fight. Jackson is brand new and still weak from the kanima. He manages to get Derek a few times mostly because Derek is trying not to let either of them scratch the walls. By the time Scott, Stiles, Isaac and Peter show up, Derek has Jackson pinned face down with his arms twisted behind his back and his hand on the back of his neck. Inexplicably, though Jackson is still so angry it's affecting his scent, the claws and fur and fangs disappear. He's just breathing hard against the carpet, barely struggling.

"Jackson," Scott says, carefully. "Are you—"

"You were supposed to _kill me!_ " Jackson yells at Derek, anger and guilt and fear and self-loathing almost palpable. "You weren't supposed to let this happen! I told you to kill me!"

"I _did_ ," Derek answers. Jackson squirms, and Derek grinds him harder into the floor. "The transformation had already started, back when I bit you. It finished once the kanima was gone. It was already in motion."

"Jesus Christ, Jackson, are you—"

"Shut up, Stilinski!" Jackson roars. God, this is going to be worse than Derek thought.

"What do you remember?" Derek demands. "Tell me what you remember."

"Everything! I remember fucking everything, okay?"

Peter makes a thoughtful noise, and Stiles crawls closer. They're all in the hallway, pressed tight together. Stiles knocks Scott out of the way so he can see Jackson better. "Even the stuff you did as the—"

" _Yes_."

"Aw, hell," Stiles says uselessly.

Derek closes his eyes for a moment, calms himself down. Then he hauls Jackson up to his feet, arms still trapped, and gets an arm around his chest to keep him still. Derek's almost a head taller. Jackson's hair grazes his jaw, his bare feet trapped between Derek's boots.

"Calm down," Derek orders, voice quiet. Jackson makes an angry sound in his throat, jerks against Derek's arm. Derek's just tightens his grip, until Jackson is all but immobile against him.

"This is kidnapping," Jackson says. "And I have a restraining order against McCall and Stilinski. My dad is going to—"

"Your dad isn't going to do anything," Derek tells him, shaking him a bit, upsetting his balance so he falls back against Derek's chest. "The entire town thinks you're dead. Your funeral is in a few days."

Jackson goes absolutely still. Derek waits until he's pretty sure the kid won't try and take a swing at anyone before he lets him go. Jackson's arms drop to his sides, and his face is blank. Derek nudges him. "The bathroom is the second door on the right. Scott and Stiles got most of your clothes and some other stuff from your house."

Jackson doesn't answer for a long time, but when he does it's with a tight nod. "Okay."

"Just your laptop. We couldn't smuggle anything but your clothes out. You've got so many clothes, man—"

"Shut up, Stilinski," Derek, Jackson and Peter all say at the same time.

Jackson wants to shower, so he goes back to his bedroom to collect some clothes. Derek tries to herd the rest of the group upstairs, but Stiles and Scott both slip past him and Isaac easily and dart into the living room. Stiles whistles appreciatively.

"I can't believe you were holding out on us!" Stiles says, looking around eagerly. He plops down onto the sofa, eyes widening on the big flatscreen on the wall. "Oh my God."

"You watch TV?" Scott asks, sitting down next to Stiles.

"We just figured you slept in a ball on the floor upstairs and like, showered in the locker room at school. You spend so much time breaking in there anyway."

"We did kind of wonder where you kept all your grey and black t-shirts though," Scott offers.

"Yeah, Derek, what's with that anyway? Like do you only buy black and grey? Are you color blind? I mean it's a common thing among, y'know, dogs. Or is it part of your brooding sexy dangerous persona?"

Derek has a headache. He's pretty sure Stiles should have one too. He'd be more than happy to make that happen. Instead, he sinks into a squashy armchair and looks at them both pointedly. "This is the first and last time you idiots come down here."

"Of course," says Stiles.

"Totally," says Scott.

"We're really good about maintaining personal boundaries."

"And staying out of places we're supposed to stay out of."

Derek glares over their heads at his uncle. "Jackson might be my fault, but this one—" he points at Scott, "—is yours, and that makes _him_ —" he gestures to Stiles, "—your fault too."

"This is homey," Stiles says, grinning at the room as a whole, his leg bouncing obnoxiously. "I like it."

Derek bares his teeth at Peter, who shrugs carelessly. "They're useful. Sometimes."

Stiles looks triumphant. " _Yeah_. We're useful. Sometimes. _Hey._ "

By the time Jackson shuffles into the room, Stiles, Scott and Isaac have just gotten back from a run for pizza and soda, and Peter and Isaac are pulling plates and glasses out of the kitchen cabinets. Jackson looks better, his skin pink from the shower. He's dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt and socks with grey toes and heels. They all stop what they're doing to stare at him, which makes him obviously uncomfortable. He clears his throat. " _What?_ "

Stiles's eyebrows draw together. "Just glad to see you without scales, dude. _Unph_ —" He cuts off with a gasp, rubbing at his gut where Scott elbowed him. Scott's expression is wary, worried.

"How're you feelin', man?"

Jackson sneers. "Just fuckin' peachy, McCall."

"You don't have to be such a dick," Stiles points out. "Scott almost died like, forty-five times trying to save you. And I got _kidnapped_. By _hunters_."

Jackson just gives him a sardonic grin. "With great power comes great responsibility."

Scott sighs. "Yeah well, you're on your own now. You got what you wanted."

"You think I wanted this? This was supposed to happen _months_ ago. It was supposed to make me stronger, better at fucking lacrosse. It wasn't supposed to turn me into that—that _thing_! He fucked it up!" Jackson points furiously at Derek, who growls low in his throat, but then Stiles breaks in.

"It wasn't his fault!"

"Oh my," Peter says, sounding nothing more or less than curious. He's the only one that's taken a piece of pizza from one of the three boxes on the coffee table, and he's sitting cross-legged on the floor. Stiles blinks at them all, and then shrugs.

"I mean, don't get me wrong, I love nothing more than to blame tall dark and brooding here for just about everything that's happened because, let's be honest, ever since we met him everything's gone straight to hell. But like, I looked this kanima thing up."

"Stiles…" Derek warns, but Stiles ignores him and reaches for a slice of pizza. It's like he's talking about the goddamn weather or something.

"Like, the kanima is like a shape shifter gone wrong, right? It can like, see your soul, and stuff."

Jackson is _livid_. "Are you saying that thing is my soul, Stilinski? Because I'll fucking kill you."

"No, no," Stiles waves his slice of pizza in the air carelessly. If he gets sauce on Derek's couch Derek is going to string him up by his ankles in the train depot and leave him there. "I'm saying that you had characteristics and your own like, doubts during the change or whatever."

Jackson walks a little further into the room. He's starving, hasn't eaten in days, but he's hanging on Stiles's every word. He sits down on the arm of Derek's chair. Scott's eyes go wide, and Stiles raises an eyebrow. Derek glares at them, shakes his head minutely. There's still plenty of room on the couch. Jackson's working on instinct now, though, sticking close to his pack. He probably has no idea.

"What characteristics?" Jackson demands.

Stiles, chewing a giant mouthful of pizza, tilts his head and starts talking with his mouth full. "Li'—you know—li''—" he stops to swallow. Peter looks openly disgusted. Scott isn't looking. Derek, unfortunately, has gotten mostly used to Stiles by now. "Like, self-centeredness and arrogance and self-loathing and submissiveness."

"Fuck you," says Jackson. "I'm not _submissive_."

"And like, lack of identity. Your dad told my dad that you haven't said you loved anyone since they told you you were adopted, right? Like you don't know who you are, or who you're supposed to be, or whatever. The kanima is all about that." Stiles finishes up the crust, shoving most of it into his mouth. Jackson is all but shaking with anger. Stiles grins at him once he's swallowed. "And _yes_ , submissive. You like being told what to do. We all know it, we've seen you with Lydia. You're like, mentally wired to be someone's bitch."

Isaac snorts, and Derek closes his eyes and prays for patience. Jackson's already across the room, his hand around Stiles's throat, snarling at him—though still human.

"Jackson," Derek says.

"Get off him!" Scott demands, and he hauls Jackson off his friend. Stiles rubs at his throat, coughing and gasping for breath.

"Shut your _mouth_ , Stilinski," Jackson growls.

"Not so funny when you're on the receiving end, is it?" Stiles glares at him, voice hoarse. "Don't blame Derek for turning you into an _asshole_ , you did that all on your own way before he bit you."

"Enough!" Derek shouts, standing up. He can't believe he's having to deal with this. With _teenagers_.

"Just stickin' up for you, boss!" Stiles tells Derek. Derek glares at him, dangerously, and bares his fangs. Stiles swallows. "Not boss, huh? Buddy? Pal? …Those either, huh? Okay, I'll just stick with Derek. Sir." He ducks behind Scott, who just looks tired.

"Might be time to take your friend home, Scott," Derek says through grit teeth.

"Yeah," Scott agrees. "C'mon, Stiles."

Stiles sighs, and looks guilty for a second, but then grabs one of the boxes of pizza and follows Scott upstairs. It's silent until Derek can't hear the Jeep anymore. Jackson's standing in front of the couch, fists clenched at his sides. He drops down to sit only a few seconds later, looking sullen.

"You should eat," Derek says. Jackson glares, and Isaac takes a seat next to Jackson and takes his own slice.

"S'good," he tells Jackson, mouth full, and Jackson makes a disgusted face, but he's too hungry to deny himself out of spite. Peter stands up, clears his throat, and walks around the coffee table to grip Isaac by the ear. Isaac gives a shocked little yelp and rises off the couch with his head turned into Peter's hand when Peter pulls. "Come along, darling boy," he says. "Time to let daddy and little brother talk."

Derek growls low in his chest, but Peter just smiles serenely and leads Isaac, pizza still in hand, from the living room.

Jackson polishes off three pieces of pizza before he even looks at Derek. Derek's grateful for the silence, however short a time it lasts.

"Didn't we light that guy on fire?" is the first thing Jackson asks. It catches Derek by surprise, and he lets out a little snort of exhausted laughter.

"Yes. He came back. Sane this time." Jackson quirks an eyebrow. Derek amends, "Relatively speaking."

Jackson looks away, takes in his surroundings. His parents are filthy rich but even they don't have the kind of money Derek does now, after generations and generations. The apartment is exceptional. There won't be anything for him to complain about except the lack of sunlight. Jackson busies himself with closing the pizza box and getting up to wash his hands in the kitchen. He walks with a swagger, like he owns this place, like he's capable and in charge and unafraid. Derek follows him into the kitchen and leans in the doorway. Jackson dries his hands and then crosses his arms over his chest, reluctantly meeting Derek's eyes.

"So what now?" Derek asks him.

Jackson scowls. "I want to go home."

"You're—"

"Dead," Jackson says. "I know. At the championship, right?"

"Mm."

Jacksons looks down, tucking his bottom lip between his teeth. He's still radiating exhaustion, uncertainty. His heartbeat is still throbbing in Derek's chest and fingertips. "So am I stuck here? With you?"

"You _asked_ for this, Jackson," Derek reminds him coolly. "You _begged_ for this. You wanted to be one of us. It's not my fault you didn't research everything that means. You're mine now."

Jackson glares. "What about McCall? He does whatever the hell he wants!"

"I didn't bite Scott. Peter did. And if Scott doesn't find a place in the pack he's going to literally lose his mind. He'll come eventually."

"Well I can't go to school, right? I can't go home. I can't be seen."

Derek shrugs. "You can, if you want. But as of right now the majority of the town saw you get zipped into a body bag. If you think you can go back into town and pick up where you left off, that's fine. I don't know how you'll explain it, but you're more than welcome to try."

Jackson growls irritably and rakes his fingers through his hair. He'd probably be pacing if he had the energy for it. Then he grazes his fingers over his stomach through his shirt, where four gashes of scar tissue mar the skin where Derek's claws impaled him. A wound from an Alpha never heals clean.

"I wasn't supposed to wake up," he murmurs.

"You were always terrified of dying."

Jackson shakes his head slowly, lips pressed together. His eyes are distant. "Not after…Not anymore. Living sounds a lot worse than dying, now."

Derek's chest aches, and his head is pounding. Jackson's been forced to grow the fuck up, finally, but this isn't how Derek wanted things to go either. One of his own in pain isn't a good feeling, and Derek's proven himself to be a pretty shitty leader. He doesn't know how to handle this. He goes on instinct and closes the distance between them, settles a hand on Jackson's shoulder. Jackson looks up at him with wet blue eyes and a pinched expression on his face.

"You won't be doing it alone." Jackson doesn't say anything, doesn't pull away—Derek knew he wouldn't. Always searching for a master. Always looking to belong. Jackson needs his Alpha. Derek squeezes his shoulder one more time before letting his hand drop. "You should go back to sleep. You're still recovering. Besides, tomorrow we start."

"Start?"

"Training."

Jackson frowns, puzzled. "Training for what?"

Derek's already walking away. "Survival."

 

 

Derek is dreaming. Jackson can feel it, knows with absolute certainty that his alpha is dreaming and that whatever it is he's dreaming about, it's bad. Jackson's chest is tight with it, the scars on the back of his neck throbbing with it. He blinks his eyes open and sighs, quiet. It's six forty-five in the morning.

His funeral is at eight.

Vaguely, he's aware of the others. Derek he can pinpoint where he is and washes of how he's feeling, flickers of whatever he's dreaming—violent and red and painful—like starbursts behind Jackson's eyes. It's significantly less intense with Peter and Isaac, but he can tell that they're alive, that they're near, probably in their bedrooms. Probably sleeping. It's been two days and he's still not used to any of it.

It's not something he planned to do, knew even through his most stubborn streak that it wouldn't be a good idea, but he ends up taking a quick shower, pulling on some clothes and grabbing one of Derek's endless supply of leather jackets on the way out. The Hale house creaks, though probably not loud enough for human ears to hear. He's as light footed as he knows how to be. He's lost this game with Derek and Isaac the last couple days. He can't move quietly enough, and he's ended up knocked on his ass by one or the other of them enough to bruise. But it's not like he's trying to sneak out, anyway. He doesn't have to ask permission for this.

He doesn't have to ask permission for fucking _anything_.

It takes all of five minutes to make it down to the edge of the trees at the cemetery. There's a casket—closed, of course. He wonders what's in it. _Who's_ in it.

Beyond that are a few dozen white chairs and a crowd of kids he barely recognizes from school. His teammates from lacrosse, sure, but the rest feel a little intrusive. Jackson's never had a lot of friends. Lydia and her parents are sitting with Jackson's mom and dad. His mom is crying, dignified, obviously trying very hard not to. His father has tears on his face. Lydia's dry-eyed but she looks bruised. She's clasping Danny's hand, and Jackson takes a second to look at the anguish on his best friend's face, the tears on his cheeks and his red nose and his shaking shoulders. Jackson's probably never loved anything like he does Danny. He's kept his parents at a careful distance since he found out he was adopted, because he was young and stupid and now he'll never get a chance to make it right. But Danny's been his best friend and confidant and _brother_ since pre-school.

And it's not like, some huge unique thing. McCall and Stilinski are probably the same way. It's just. It's just maybe now hitting him that he's lost his best friend. That his best friend's lost _his_ best friend. That he's not going to play lacrosse or swim or sit around and waste time with Danny again. Not ever.

It's kind of a sucker punch. Jackson falters where he stands, hands curling into fists at his sides. His eyes are stinging. His father is _crying_. They think Jackson's body's being lowered into the ground, that he was killed by some damn _cougar_ on the fucking lacrosse field. And maybe one of the hardest realizations is that it's just these four people that really belong at this thing. Everyone else is probably there just to get out of going to school. Christ. This is such fucking _bullshit_.

Isaac and McCall and Stilinski and Allison are down at the proceedings, standing just behind coach a few feet off from the rows of white folding chairs, but when Derek and Peter walk up through the trees behind him Jackson's not overly surprised. He swipes the cuff of Derek's jacket over his face and pulls it a little tighter around his shoulders. Peter comes to stand beside him, leaning against a tree and looking mildly interested. Derek's at his back, scent like fire and soap and skin and hair gel and something deeper and more penetrating and _Alpha_. He grips Jacksons's shoulder, squeezes once, and then his thumb starts rubbing slow, soothing circles over the nape of Jackson's neck. Jackson swallows hard, relaxes his muscles where he's tensed them up in his shoulders and back and arms. The casket is out of sight now, underground.

"It's Gerard's body," Peter says. Jackson glances at him and he shrugs casually. "Another death on property owned by the Hales? Derek would've been in jail again."

"You're lucky my parents' family has a long-standing tradition of closed-casket burials."

"I wouldn't call anything about this lucky," Derek murmurs. Jackson tilts his head back, feels his hair brush across Derek's cheek. People are dispersing down in the cemetery. Isaac and Scott both glance around at them, completely lacking in subtlety. Jackson rolls his eyes.

"I wanna try the rope thing again," he tells Derek.

Derek's main training purpose seems to be control. Jackson is, generally speaking, three steps on either side from throwing himself off a cliff and beating someone to a bloody pulp at all times. Control isn't exactly his forte. He doesn't like, wolf out like Isaac does if he gets mad, but he flies off the handle easily. There's something oddly relaxing about trying to get out whatever Derek's found to bind him with. He's having trouble with the rope. Claws slice up his arms, and there's supposed to be no blood spilt. He's working on it.

"Sure," Derek says. Jackson pulls away from his hand and shoves his fists into the pockets of Derek's jacket. Derek and Peter take the lead, talking quietly. Jackson looks back over his shoulder to see Danny, standing alone next to the grave site with his hands in his pockets and the wind blowing his tie around.

 

 

Lydia comes by the next day. 

Jackson's mean to her, tells her that they're not getting back together, that she's stupid for thinking that it would happen, and that if he'd known she was going to become so clingy he'd never have dated her in the first place. Lydia's always been the easiest person to blame for Jackson's problems, and he's never been a very decent person, certainly not decent enough to stop himself. Lydia always saw right through him. Defense mechanisms, she always called them, and then made him watch The Notebook.

This time, when she refuses to listen, Jackson goes all wolf on her and scares her. On purpose. She's crying when she leaves, and Jackson's mouth feels dry and stomach aches.

"That was brutal," Peter says when Jackson gets back downstairs. Jackson rolls his eyes, and Peter continues. "I mean, I know you did it for all the right reasons, and everything, but I haven't seen cruelty used with such precision and skill in a long, long time."

"She'll be fine," says Jackson. "I spent more time making her cry than making her laugh, anyway."

"Yeah," Isaac agrees, flipping through a magazine on the couch. "You're sort of a douche nozzle, man."

Normally, Jackson would punch him in the jaw and they'd rough house for a few until Derek hauled them apart. As it is, Jackson's too fucking tired. He grunts noncommittally and wanders off into his room and closes the door. When he wakes up the next morning, Derek is dreaming. Jackson closes his eyes and goes back to sleep.

 

 

Stiles makes a pro-con list. Of course he does. He hangs it up on Scott's bedroom wall. He's given it a title: _Joining Derek's Pack_. Most likely out of spite, Derek's name is in fuchsia colored Sharpie, and there's a small doodle of a wolf in brown with red eyes. Scott had just raised an eyebrow, and Stiles had stuttered that he'd just gotten some new markers, and then cleared his throat and started the list.

As it stands, the pro side is slim. Derek was born a werewolf and therefore knows a whole lot more than Scott does, and both Scott and Stiles agree that somewhere underneath the like, warrior king thing Derek's got going on he's probably a decent guy. Presenting a united front against the Alpha pack is there too, and that's pretty solid.

The cons, however, are already two rows long. Stiles is creative, but what it mostly comes down to is that Scott can't trust Derek not to make stupid decisions for the sake of like, pride. He tells Deaton and Isaac as much at work the last Monday of the school year. He's wrapping a bandage around the shaved leg of a toy poodle where they put the IV so she could have her teeth cleaned. Deaton is washing up and Isaac is sorting files in the shelves along the sidewall.

"I mean, the way he turned you guys, y'know?" Scott says, frowning. "That's not how that's usually done, is it?"

"I just found out that werewolves are real, dude," Isaac says. "Beats me."

"It's absolutely not," Deaton chimes in, toweling off his hands. "Derek felt…pressured by the impending arrival of the Alpha pack, but making shapeshifters is generally much more ritualistic, and goes through a long and arduous approval process. It's difficult to form a bond with people you hardly know."

"A bond?" Scott asks. "Like magic?"

Deaton snorts. "Supernatural, anyway. You told me that after you were bitten you could see through the Alpha's eyes. An Alpha is bound to each of his pack, and his pack is bound together. These bonds are, obviously, quite breakable as Erica and Boyd have chosen to do. The stronger the Alpha, the stronger the bond."

"Peter said something about like, mate bonds," Isaac says.

"That's on a much deeper level, but same rules apply, from what I understand."

"So really, Derek is just a sucky Alpha."

Isaac growls a bit, which Scott half-expected, but even Deaton looks at Scott unimpressed. "Derek is young and grieving and under an incredible amount of pressure. I believe that he is more than capable of becoming the Alpha that his father was. As of right now he's…not entirely competent."

"What does it feel like?" Scott asks Isaac, who's watching them curiously now. "The…the pack bond thing."

Isaac frowns thoughtfully. "Irritating, usually. A lot of it is just like, feeling, though. It feels safer to be closer to him, and he can tell when one of us is in trouble or something. Like you can tell when he's near, right?"

Scott shrugs. He can, and not just through scent. He can feel Derek, he supposes. This pull in his chest whenever he's nearby. A strange absence sometimes. When he was being tortured Scott could sense that, too.

"He can't be alone," Deaton says. "It would drive him insane, quite literally. As… _damaged_ as he is, as untrusting and stubborn as he is, he's making it more difficult on himself than necessary. He's desperate for you to join his pack for several reasons, but at the moment he has three of his own. Two of which I believe he would have found at some point and would have changed through proper channels." He nods toward Isaac, who grins a little.

"And Jackson?" Scott asks, making a face.

"Mm."

Scott waits for him to continue, but he's waking the poodle up now and seems distracted, so Scott sighs tiredly and looks at Isaac. "How's he doing, anyway?"

Isaac shrugs. "You know Jackson."

"So entitled, angry and a pain in the ass?"

"Mostly," Isaac says, grinning. "He's all right. Derek's been running us both into the ground. I think it's mostly to keep Jackson so busy he can't whine about not being able to go to school and stuff."

"Has Lydia been by to see him?"

Isaac nods, eyes narrowing in a wince. "Yeah. That was loud. He sort of…dumped her again? She was really hurt and he was a dick about it. Went all like, wolf out on her to scare her."

Deaton perks up at that. "He did it on purpose?"

"Yeah. He's actually really good at controlling that. Like I've only seen him do it a couple times. That time with Lydia and once when Derek told him to."

"Hm."

Scott looks at Deaton, eyebrow raised. "What?"

"That's just interesting. I'll be curious to see what happens during the full moon."

"Well it's two nights from now," Isaac tells him. "So you'll find out pretty quick. I hope Derek's ready for it. It's not exactly like Jackson needed more combat training. He's…"

Scott tunes him out, because through the window he can suddenly see a tumble of dark hair framing a pretty face and a gorgeous smile and his chest _aches_ , his throat closing up. She's walking with Lydia, the sun just starting to go down. They have Macy's bags in their hands. They're laughing. Scott swallows hard and looks away. His hands are shaking.

"Back to the matter at hand," Deaton says, returning the groggy poodle to its crate. "I think it might be wise to work with Derek for the time being. If not as a part of his pack than as two people united against a common enemy."

"Co-captains," Scott says dryly. Deaton smiles.

"Precisely."

Isaac snorts. "Good luck talking Derek into that."

Scott shakes his head. He'd sort of already made this decision before. The second Derek tried to convince him again, minutes after Jackson collapsed in the wake of the kanima, to be a part of his pack. He'd sort of known all along. He'd just been hoping he could be talked out of it. United for the sake of Beacon Hills.

The Alpha pack hasn't even shown up yet, though. There hasn't even been a whisper. Maybe this time, Scott'll get lucky. The universe kind of owes him that. _At least_. Maybe the Alpha pack will just move on and things will go back to normal.

Well, normalish, anyway.

 

 

Isaac's always been good at lacrosse. He's not amazing, but he's a solid player, made first string as a Freshman. People never really knew his name, and he's never really been looking for glory anyway, but it's something that he honestly enjoys. When he was a kid—a younger kid, anyway—his dad used to practice with him. Before. A lot of Isaac's fondest memories are from those nights on a makeshift field in their back yard, his dad tossing him over his shoulder and tickling him until he couldn't breathe every time he scored, his brother decked out in goal gear and ruffling his hair with something like pride.

He and Jackson have their own sort of makeshift field now, in a clearing a couple miles from the Hale house. Isaac put it together not long after he moved in, used to spend a few hours a day angrily smashing a ball through trees on his own, because Derek doesn't give a shit about lacrosse and Erica was always more interested in being out in public. Boyd would come sometimes, but he doesn't know the game that well. Jackson at least is someone Isaac can run through drills with.

It's sort of a lesson in control, anyway, learning when and how to control his strength so he doesn't send the ball through Jackson's chest or all the way through the pocket, and something about being out here still makes him angry, makes him _furious_ , makes his eyes glow gold and his claws come out. Isaac tries his best not to psychoanalyze himself.

They've been out for a few hours and the sun is at its peak when lacrosse sort of devolves into sparring, which Isaac _always_ wins. He pins Jackson to the ground after twenty minutes and looks down at him with a smirk, pats his chest tauntingly. Jackson shoves him off and Isaac stands up, laughing, and offers Jackson a hand to help him up.

"Fuck you," Jackson says, but he takes it anyway.

Isaac's known Jackson his whole life, pretty much. They lived next door to each other for seventeen years. Isaac never really noticed him beyond burning jealousy, of course, and Jackson sure as hell never noticed Isaac, but he's been around him enough to notice stuff. To notice that Jackson's over-achieving to a fault, that he takes a lot of pride in how expensive everything he owns is, that he's pretty heartless and gets angry easy and he'd rather chew his own arm off than accept help or advice from anyone.

This new and improved version is different. Not much. He's still an unholy dick, but he's so much _calmer_ than he ever was before. Isaac's spent a lot of time with him over the last month. He likes to think that they've got a certain camaraderie going. At the very least, they're on the same page with how much they dislike each other, anyway.

"It's okay," Isaac tells him loftily, still grinning. "I'm older. You'll get there someday, champ."

Jackson lobs a rock at his head, which bounces off Isaac's shoulder when he jerks out of the way. He's cackling, just a little, and Jackson rolls his eyes. "You're younger than me."

True enough. Jackson was in a car wreck with his parents when Isaac was like, eight or so, and spent so long out of school that he had to repeat third grade. Isaac shrugs. "I've been a werewolf longer."

"You can't even keep your damn eyes in check," Jackson tells him grumpily.

"I'm getting there! I've just go so much power that it's—"

Jackson laughs, which is probably mean even though it sounds so genuine, and Isaac shoves him back a few steps and hunkers down to retie the shoe that came undone because Jackson fights _dirty_. Jackson slumps down to sit nearby, winding an arm around his drawn up knees. Isaac quirks an eyebrow. Jackson'd usually be gone by now, back to Derek. He generally stays within a twenty foot radius of Derek. Isaac understands to a certain degree. It does feel a bit more secure when their Alpha is nearby, and Isaac likes Derek just fine, respects him absolutely. But Jackson stays close. Unobtrusive, but not exactly inconspicuous. When Isaac asked Derek about it, Derek just glared and made him go grocery shopping with Peter.

Peter, of course, loves nothing more than the sound of his own voice, so Isaac got his answer anyway. Peter said it's all to do with personality type, with the kanima, which Jackson won't ever actually be free of. He said most shifters need a pack, need an alpha because they need a _leader_. Jackson needs a master. It sounded kinky. Peter laughed when Isaac told him so, and said anything was possible.

"Full moon tonight," Jackson murmurs.

Isaac looks around at him, laces looped properly again. He stretches his legs out in front of himself and leans back on his hands, toes of his shoes touching. "Nervous?"

"Tch, no," Jackson says. It's a blatant lie, but Isaac doesn't bother to call him on it. It's Jackson's first full moon, and even Derek isn't entirely sure just what Jackson _is_.

"You just have to find an anchor. Derek's gonna tell you that too. His is anger, apparently."

Jackson's eyebrows draw together. "What's yours?"

"My dad."

Jackson stares at him for a few seconds, and Isaac just stares calmly back. After a few seconds, Jackson shifts, letting one leg drop to stretch out in front of him. "Like. Anger at him?"

Isaac shakes his head. "He wasn't always like that. I mean after my mom died he had a bit more of a temper than usual, but he didn't start like...y'know, until my brother died. It used to be good."

He stops, because talking about it still hurts. Not feeling sorry that his dad is dead hurts even worse. They're quiet for a few minutes, all but baking in the sun through the trees. And then Jackson clears his throat.

"Isaac, man, I'm. I'm sorry. That I never said anything to anyone. That my parents and I knew and didn't…" he trails off.

Isaac looks at him, hard enough that it must make Jackson uncomfortable because he looks away and scratches at the back of his neck. He's not lying.

"You've never really cared about anyone but yourself, dude," Isaac says honestly. Jackson flinches a bit, but it's not like it's not true. "You didn't owe me anything."

"McCall would've said something. I should've said something."

There's a lot to that. One is absolute proof that Jackson is growing as a person. The other is absolute proof that he's not. Isaac shakes his head, amused and kind of exasperated. "I'm pretty sure I've ended up where I'm supposed to be."

Jackson snorts. "What? Like fate?"

"Yeah," says Isaac. "Yeah, like fate."

 

 

Derek takes Jackson to the train depot. Peter is watching Isaac back at the house, though Derek's reasonably certain that Isaac will be fine this time. He's not sure what it is, exactly, Jackson's going to become, and if it turns out to be the kanima—particularly the form that has wings—he wants his pack safely out of the way.

"So you're just gonna like, lock me up? You realize you've been teaching me how to escape traps for like a month."

"It mostly just gives me enough time to get to you before you hurt something…in this case most likely yourself," Derek tells Jackson, pulling open the door. The sun hasn't quite gone down yet. He has about fifteen minutes to get Jackson strapped down. "You'll be fine. Just—"

He cuts himself off, stops so abruptly that Jackson almost smashes into his back, and narrows his eyes at Chris Argent, standing there with a rifle on his back and a Glock in a side holster. He's leaning against the subway car, and his eyes rake Jackson up and down. Derek finds himself shifting to stand in front of his beta protectively without much thought to it.

"What are you doing here?"

"It's his first full moon," Chris says. "Call me curious."

"This isn't a show," Derek replies curtly. Chris smirks a bit and stands up straight, walks closer. Jackson's fingers curl into the back of Derek's shirt and stay tangled there, but he sidesteps him enough to be able to see the hunter well enough. Chris tilts his head. "How ya doin', son?"

"I'm not your son," Jackson says, predictably. "Are you staying all night?"

Derek frowns, turns his head to look at Jackson but Jackson's ignoring him, eyes on Chris, who nods. "All night long, kid. From what I understand you never had a heart of gold in the first place."

"Jackson's mine," Derek breaks in. He's angry, unhappy with this potential threat. Jackson's knuckles dig into his back a little. "You don't need to be here. If something goes wrong—"

"He should stay," Jackson says. "I mean, if I turn into that thing again—"

"You won't," Derek growls.

"You might need help."

"Guns and claws didn't work last time," Derek argues.

"I brought a blow torch this time," Chris offers, jerking a thumb behind him toward the corner.

Jackson waves his free hand dismissively. "Whatever, just. Whatever."

"Eloquent," Chris drawls.

Derek ignores him. Jackson's looking up at him stubbornly, the corners of his mouth pulled down. It's the same look he has on his face when they spar, and Jackson gets the shit kicked out of him over and over and refuses to give in until Derek pulls rank on him and makes him. Derek sighs and turns back to Chris, who holds up a wound length of chain and offers them a casual grin.

Jackson doesn't like being bound, growls unhappily at Chris as they chain him to one of the seats in the subway car. Chris ignores it and handcuffs him to one of the poles by one wrist. Derek cuffs the other to the bar on the underside of the seat.

"Shouldn't he be a bit more aggressive already?" Chris asks.

Derek bares his teeth at him, because _yes_ , this is already weird, and _no_ he didn't want Jackson to know that, but it's too late. Jackson looks up at them at once. "What?"

"You can feel the moon, right?" Chris asks. "Have for a few days now?"

Jackson frowns, shifting minutely where he sits, testing the strength of the bonds. "Yeah. Like a…like a burn under my skin. And it kind of like, pulls. A lot."

"Allison said Scott's first full moon was obvious, that he was having panic attacks and that he was angry. Acting different."

Jackson frowns harder, and Derek shoves Chris out of the way and crouches down so he's eye level with him, checks the lock on the chain to make sure it's secure at his torso. Jackson _hates_ to feel inadequate, like he's done something wrong or that he is something wrong. Derek shouldn't know this much about him, doesn't know this much about Isaac, who's been with him months longer. Something about Jackson's wound its way through him, though. He knows that Jackson's been dreaming about the things he did as the kanima. He knows when he's scared or sad or angry. He knows where he is _all the time_. He knows what Jackson's afraid of and it isn't death anymore.

"It'll start soon, and it'll be painful, so be prepared for that. What you're trying to do is remain—"

"Not wolf-faced?"

Derek pinches him on the upper arm until Jackson swears. "That's what you're working up toward. Try and center yourself—mind and body."

"New age bullshit," Jackson grumbles. Derek smacks him lightly in the back of the head and Jackson's eyes sort of flutter, and then narrow into a glare.

"Find something…some emotion or memory or thought or _something_ that makes you want to stay rational. Find an anchor. Just do the best you can, huh?"

Jackson nods, and Derek grips his knee for a moment and then stands up again. "Derek," Jackson murmurs.

"Mm?"

"If I…."

Derek looks at him for a long time. Jackson's pale, his eyes very blue even in the shitty lighting, and his mouth is trembling a little. He's terrified of becoming a monster again. Derek's chest clenches. He rests a hand on Jackson's head, strokes over his hair, comforting. "I won't let you hurt anyone."

He looks at Chris pointedly, and Chris nods. "I'm here to make sure everyone stays safe. Including you."

It'll have to do.

The sun's been down for about twenty minutes before Jackson even moves. Derek's sitting in one of the seats across the aisle, and Chris is leaning in the doorway of the car. Jackson's eyes dilate, and then flicker bright, bright blue. Derek lets out a breath, because they're not orange-yellow and slitted like a reptiles, and even though he was ninety percent sure just by scent that Jackson's all werewolf, having it confirmed is a weight off his shoulders.

Still, he's expecting one hell of a fight, something along the lines of Isaac or Boyd or Erica their first time through. But Jackson doesn't even make it all the way through the transformation before he's got a handle on it. He's only fangs and claws for a handful of seconds, and then he closes his eyes and Derek watches, non-plussed, as the fangs retract into blunt human teeth and his fingertips swallow the points of his claws. His face stays smooth, and he's sweating a bit, breathing hard, but beyond that he's perfectly sane.

"Jackson?" Derek asks, carefully. Jackson nods, coughs a couple times and then clears his throat.

"Yeah," he says, voice a bit rough.

"That's it?" Chris says. "No way. I've seen a first change before. Has he ever even shifted fully since the night my father died?"

"Yeah," Derek says. "He can do it on command."

"'m not a dog," Jackson says, squirming a little, but that feeling Derek understands. He feels it himself. The pull of the moon, the power thrumming through his veins, throbbing in his chest, just behind his eyes. Jackson blinks, shakes his head a little. "Don't talk about me like I'm not here."

"You shouldn't be all here, kid," Chris says. "That's some impressive control."

"Are you?" Derek asks. "Controlling it?"

Isaac was able to get a handle on it his first shift too, but not this well. He had his wits but his body was still out of his control, still very much wolf. Jackson nods jerkily. "I think so. I'm. I don't want to be out of control."

Derek rubs a hand over his mouth, fingers scraping over the stubble on his cheek. "You found an anchor?" he asks. "Or is it fear?"

Jackson glares at him. "I found an anchor. I already had one. Also, fuck you."

Derek rolls his eyes, and shares a look with Chris, who shrugs.

They keep Jackson chained up the rest of the night. It gets a little more difficult for him at one point, and his cheeks flush red and his hands clench into fists, arms pulling a bit at the handcuffs, and for a few hours his eyes glow bright blue, but that's the worst it gets.

Chris leaves once the sun's come up, apparently appeased, and Derek unlocks Jackson's wrists and pulls the chain off him. Jackson's exhausted. Isaac slept for three days after he fought off every instinct in his body to keep control his first time. Jackson's eyes are barely open. Derek catches him when he tries to stand and falls instead. Jackson's hands curl into Derek's t-shirt and his forehead drops to Derek's shoulder and Derek sighs.

"You're such a pain in the ass," he grumbles, tossing Jackson over his shoulder.

Once home, Derek drops Jackson onto his bed. Jackson wakes up enough to kick his shoes off and pull the covers up around himself, until there's nothing but a tuft of blond hair poking out. Derek shakes his head and closes the door when he steps back out into the hall.

He knocks lightly on Isaac's door and looks in on him, finds him asleep with a book open on his chest, and leaves him to it. Peter's in the living room, on his laptop, doing God knows what. Derek grunts a greeting and his uncle looks up at him from where's settled comfortably on the sofa, feet up on the coffee table.

"How'd it go?"

Derek shrugs."Fine."

Peter grins. "Good."

"I'm going to sleep."

"Big bad werewolf."

Derek flips him off, and ignores Peter's chuckle on his way back to his bedroom. He takes a quick shower, tugs on a pair of boxers, and collapses onto his bed. He's getting too old for this up all night shit. He closes his eyes, swallows hard at the knot of warmth in his chest, the pulse of _Pack_ right there at his core.

 

Jackson's in his bedroom, sprawled out on his back on the floor, idly flipping through cable channels on the TV he demanded be provided if he was going to be so confined. He tried to sleep for a while, but it's pretty much all he seems to do lately and after tossing and turning for an hour he's wide awake, watching an infomercial about a weed-eater and kind of floating in a hazy, over-tired limbo. And then his chest _throbs_ and all the air is stolen from his lungs. The weed-eater is only three installments of nineteen ninety-nine. Jackson's ribs feel like they're caving in.

There's a sort of stream of consciousness as he picks himself up off the ground, a bit of an existential crisis running through his head, but underneath that there's something base and yearning and his lips are curling around the word 'Alpha' without sound, his mind is wrapping around the name 'Derek'. He pads out of his room and down the hall, and he can't believe that Isaac and Peter aren't awake, that they can't _feel_ this, that they aren't right here with him because Derek's all but _screaming_ in the white noise of the air conditioner and the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

He doesn't bother knocking, but he shuts the door behind him. It's pitch black but hey, there're some perks to being a werewolf. Derek's asleep, deeply asleep, but writhing, dreaming, these quiet, pained gasps coming out through grit teeth. He doesn't have his wolf face on but Jackson can see claws and fangs when Derek rolls onto his side, legs moving restlessly underneath the blanket, jaw clenched and teeth bared. Jackson's head is spinning, and when he closes his eyes he sees smoke and a girl on her knees crying, dark-haired and pretty, eyes just like Derek's. His blood is a loud rush between his ears. Everything feels sideways, slanted. He crawls carefully onto the foot of the bed and reaches out.

He doesn't touch at first, uncertain, but then Derek makes this sound like he's _dying_ and Jackson curls his fingers around Derek's arm.

In less than a second Jackson's flat on his back on the mattress and looking up into sharp, wild red eyes. There's a clawed hand around his neck and Derek's scent is wild, afraid and furious. Jackson's heart is pounding. When he swallows he can feel his Adam's apple rise and fall against Derek's palm. Derek's growling low in his throat, not quite out of the dream yet. Jackson's not entirely sure if he's going to survive this. He's shaking, terrified.

"Derek," he says, sort of stutters, tongue heavy in his mouth. "Derek, man, it's—"

Derek growls and tightens his grip on Jackson's neck and the words catch in Jackson's throat. They're close, pressed together with their legs tangled, Derek looming over him. Jackson's lips are parted, dry. He swipes his tongue over them and slowly, carefully, wraps his hand around Derek's wrist, digs his thumb into the pulse point. Derek's heart is racing too. But he blinks, once, slowly, and then visibly reins himself in. The claws grazing the sides of Jackson's neck dull away, but the hand stays right there over his throat, even as the red leeches out of Derek's eyes.

"What're you doing in here?" Derek growls. His voice is thick from sleep. His chest is still rising and falling too quickly, breath heavy. His heartbeat is thundering in Jackson's ears, in Jackson's chest. Without thinking he lifts his free hand to Derek's chest, presses his palm right over the rapid throb. Derek doesn't flinch away. Jackson tilts his head back a little, knows his eyes are open too wide, knows Derek can scent everything he's feeling.

"You were screaming."

"No I wasn't."

"Not. Not out loud."

Derek's breath catches in his throat, and for a long time he doesn't say anything. And then he lowers himself down onto his stomach at Jackson's side, and his hand slides from Jackson's throat to the center of his torso, just underneath his rib cage.Jackson stays still, waits for Derek to say something, and when it doesn't happen he turns slowly onto his side. He's going to move, pick himself up, get out of Derek's bed. But he doesn't. Derek's arm is heavy across his hip, the pads of his fingers on Jackson's bare back. His eyes are open, intense the way they always are. Jackson's shaking a little, and suddenly overwhelmingly sleepy. It feels good here, warm, secure. Alpha. He closes his eyes and curls an arm between them, knuckles knocking against Derek's chest.

"Tell me what you're thinking, Jackson," Derek orders.

Everything is hazy with sleepiness. Jackson turns his hand and spreads his fingers back over Derek's heartbeat, counts it, slow and steady now. It's dark and quiet. Derek smells good. Clean. 

"Alpha," he murmurs. His chest is aching fiercely. It's hard to breathe until Derek's fingers dig into his back, force his lungs to expand. Jackson tips his head forward, feels Derek's breath over his hair. "Mine."

"Jackson," says Derek.

Jackson opens his eyes. His mouth is just inches from Derek's. It would be so easy to—"Can I…?"

"Jackson."

"Just let me—" And he slants his mouth over Derek's.

It's different. Jackson's not all that new to this; Danny was his first everything. But it's different. Derek's lips aren't chapped and they don't taste like lip gloss and they're fuller than even Lydia's. He doesn't kiss back, not at first, and Jackson's not even sure that he wants him to. Jackson pulls away after a few seconds, fingertips tingling. Derek's eyes are open, brow furrowed, but he's not angry. The scar tissue where Derek's claws pierced Jackson's chest burns.

"You have no idea what you're doing," Derek tells him.

Jackson swallows. "When I close my eyes I can see what you're dreaming. I feel you all the time. Your scent keeps changing."

"Tell me what your anchor is, " Derek says, sudden and a little sharp. Jackson snorts, shakes his head.

"You already know."

Derek's big hand comes up to cup the side of Jackson's face. He pushes himself up onto his elbow, thumbs at Jackson's lower lip. "Tell me."

Jackson rolls his eyes, turns easily onto his back when Derek guides him to, and arches his back into the kiss when Derek presses their mouths together again. He kisses like he talks, no nonsense and perpetually frustrated. It's not toothy but it's deep, penetrating, patient and demanding all at once. Jackson would make a joke about Derek going all alpha male on him but, well. He parts his lips and runs the tip of his tongue along the vein on the underside of Derek's. He slides his hands up Derek's bare back and arches his back and presses up into him. Derek's heavy and solid, hard muscle like Jackson hasn't felt against him since he was fifteen and it was Danny, and Jackson sure as hell wasn't the one underneath that time. Jackson's spent the last two months having his ass handed to him by Derek though. This feels better.

Jackson's whole body feels off-kilter and _good_ , over-heated. Derek nips at his bottom lip, tugs, sooths the sting with his tongue. His hand is cupping the back of Jackson's head and he's palming at Jack's thigh, thumb slipping just under the leg of Jackson's boxer-briefs. Jackson's hard. So's Derek. It smells like sex and arousal and _Derek_ , clean and hot and damaged. Their lips break apart with a quiet smack and Derek kisses his way down Jackson's neck, over his collarbone. Jackson sinks his teeth into his bottom lip on a low moan and spreads his legs.

"Tell me your anchor," Derek breathes into his ear.

Jackson shakes his head. His voice is choked, needy. He hates it. "You told me to control it. So I…"

Derek _moans_ , so low and guttural. It sends all the blood in Jackson's body rushing straight to his dick. He digs his fingers harder into Derek's shoulder blades. 

"Tell me," Derek orders again, mouth so hot and open on Jackson's neck, smearing back up to his mouth, tongue diving in and rubbing along the backs of Jackson's teeth and the roof of his mouth. Jackson pulls his knees up so he's bracketing Derek's hips between them and tears his mouth away, threads his fingers through Derek's thick hair. 

"It's _you_ , you fucking asshole. It's fucking _you_."

Derek grinds down, sinks his teeth into the side of Jackson's neck, his eyelashes fluttering over Jackson's throat. Jackson closes his eyes, squeezes them shut tight. He sees himself through Derek's eyes behind the curtain of his lids and nothing makes sense. None of this makes any fucking sense.

 

Apparently, the world doesn't think it owes Scott a damn thing, because on the first day of school, Beacon Hills High's newly-reinstated principal walks into Scott and Stiles's homeroom followed by two tall, dark-haired twin Alpha _werewolves_.

"Everyone," Mr. Harris says, after a few quick words with the principal, "This is Ethan and Aiden Lord."

They're handsome and charismatic and they zero in on Scott immediately and their faces break out into identical evil grins and for just a fraction of a second, their eyes glow deep, blood red.

"And in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy spirit…" Stiles intones, wide-eyed. Scott swallows hard. "Amen."

 

**TBC**


End file.
